The Shadows of Eternity
by RegencyPoet
Summary: Adela Reneau, the daughter of a French aristocrat, suffers an unwanted fate upon meeting the man haunting her dreams since infanthood. Running from the shadows of her past, she retells her life through a series of diary entries 200 years later. Dracula/OC
1. The Vicomte's Daughter

**"It's one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall." -Shakespeare  
**__

_June 9__th__, 1665  
__London_

_It has been five days and four nights in constant motion, persistent hiding, and everlasting darkness. Soon, I am afraid that my mind will eventually lose its sanity in the overbearing thirst running away with what is left of my senses. Plague has at last befallen the citizens of London—I can smell it on the streets, feel the vacant emptiness of the city it rules, and hear the faint heartbeats of its victims in the decaying households I find myself passing with every sunset. Even in my current condition, my permanent condition, I found myself growing wary of the bodies piling like mountains in the alleys._

_As the days fly by, dawn turning into evening and the moon slowly becoming my sun, I found myself missing my family dearly: my sister, my brothers, my whole life. All of that is lost to me, now that I've become the bloodthirsty monster humans have brought themselves to despise since traces of its origin could be found within history. I am consistently stalked, hunted, and betrayed by the people I love the most. What can be a more awful fate than what I have been given? My world of masque balls, suitors, gowns, perfumes, and comfort has drifted away with the last breath I ever took as a human being. How arbitrary was this coincidence—that the daughter of a _vicomtè_ could fall into the hands of death so soon, so naively, because her primary suitor had deceived her into believing in a love not existent? I had fallen into the trap he set the moment he laid those cold eyes on me, and the cost of this betrayal became my life for his everlasting affections. But I didn't want his desire—I didn't want any form of communication to occur between us. How can love exist in a body without life, where the very central core begins to rot and diminish, and with it dies the humanity of the body? I am now death incarnate, walking and living off of the life source pumping through mortal veins. I am a monster._

He _took this from me. _He_ brought my reputation and honor as a young woman of high stature to ruin, yet I cannot escape his voice or presence. It is as if we are connected in some way, for my emotions at the dawn of my death have not spawned from me since then, but from him. It is like having a second voice inside one's own head; not physically near to whisper in one's ear, but echoing like a drum through the mind. He speaks to me and poisons my mind with sweet promises of paradise and love I cannot fathom in a mortal lifetime. But I am not blind to his whispers. I can sense him chasing me, tracking me down. Romania had been a long ways away compared to the distance I traveled. Frankly, I am surprised my feet have carried me this far, hundreds of miles across Europe and a vast distance from the very country that took my life away from me. The country I call my home, France, became a place of great despair for me after my life had ended. The serenity of my birth country would be something I shall never fully experience again. I passed by my family's estate the day before I left for England; its vacant emptiness reminding me of where my family was, in Romania, losing their wits over my disappearance. Their misery was my comfort, for I knew in the depths of my still heart that they have not forgotten me._

_I would be in the local papers, for sure. Posters depicting various sketches of my human face would be pasted near city streets, but they would not search for me. I have traveled too far for the search to prove successful—I have become too lost in the creature I am now to care for my family to find me._

_Now, as I sit here, perched at a worn desk inside a plague-ridden inn, writing this to whoever possesses this diary many years from now, I must admit that this endless thirst continues to consume me. I wonder how I can live with such a curse: I cannot kill myself, nor die of drowning or starvation or sickness. Believe me; the attempted end of this living corpse I reside in has become futile. Instead, I will live forever among the walking shadows of humans, visible to the curious eye, yet invisible to the world. A sob escaped me at this thought, followed by the abhorrent burning at the back of my throat. Compare this feeling, if you will, to the feeling of dehydration you cannot sate nor diminish… I cannot spare a thought of my time without thinking about the hunger eating away at me. I have saved many suffering of the plague today—their blood, diseased and rotting, had been the single source available that would keep me under control, and I pitied their struggles too much to watch their maladies devour them. I have shrunken down into nothing, a rat feeding off scraps of waste littering the filthy streets… all because of _him_._

_I lived once as a respectable young woman in her prime, not any older than twenty before his venom took hold in my mortal veins. My father is a vicomtè, a highly-esteemed aristocrat of France whose travels often took him away from home. As the second eldest in comparison to my older brother, I became the additional sibling allowed to accompany him on his travels. Once I came of age to be eligibly married off, my mother thought the best chance of flaunting her oldest daughter was to send her along to richer, and more exotic countries. These travels occasionally, if not frequently, took him to Romania. The two cultures, though vastly different, exchanged traditions like pocket money. One is always copying the latest fashion, ethics, and forms of entertainment from the other. It is on a rare occasion that a Frenchman or Romanian did not fluently speak the other's language. Our countries are neighbors, in a sense. A majority of my favorite masque balls took place in Romania. The upperclassmen in the superstitious country are known to be the most charming, second to the French aristocrats. It is quite ironic that one of these brilliant men is responsible for the execution of my human life._

_My killer is a count, one of the most well-known counts in the history of his country. I had heard of several stories before I ever fell into the opportunity of making his acquaintance directly. Many young women two years my senior told me of his unmistakable charm, his lust for a variety of ladies, and the legends speculating that he is an immortal night-walker. Vaguely I remember tossing the rumors aside, assuming that all of them had envied me for catching the attention of such a powerful man. It is only until now that I realized they were warning me of something I knew nothing about. In person, the count had a charming nature, no doubt, and a quite handsome appearance. Without dwelling on the present, I remember bountiful select conversations I shared with him on occasion that battled my intellect delightfully. But, as he called on me with frequency and spent careful time winning my heart over with his wit and gall, I realized a darker motivation lurked beneath the azure hue of his eyes._

_I am ashamed to write this, dear reader, for I think you will accuse me to be a quick mademoiselle. We met one fateful night not long ago—a tryst had followed, a treacherous deed and act I would be too embarrassed to admit to my father in person. He had bitten me, ravished me, taken everything I clung to as a child and woman… and here I am. The change had the most painful effects: a night passed filled with anger, despair, and heart wrenching confusion. I ran from him as soon as my body gave me the chance. In the slums of every country I currently hide, feeding off of the weak and sick, disgusted with the person I have become and will forever be. There's no turning back now. This journey has just begun, and I cannot bring myself to look into the future ahead of me just yet, for I continue to run from my past who chases me with vigilance._

_I am scared, frightened, and alone. He expects me to crawl on hands and knees back to him, but I would never make that dark choice. I will not give in. A cry of anguish suddenly flew out into the quiet night—another soul, lost. Their family must be devastated or deceased by now. Time beckons, and I find myself taking leave of this journal now, reader, for the thirst is a second raging person inside of me, and I am afraid I cannot contain my restraint any longer._

_Sincerely Yours, _

_The Vicomtè's Daughter, Adela Reneau_


	2. In A Vision, Darkly

This is a kind of filler chapter for future events, and I didn't realize until I was finished that there was so much symbolism and irony in it. But as much of a filler chapter it is, it is nevertheless important and I find it entertaining. Reviews make me giddy and give me a surge of inspiration to write faster, and all-in-all they make me smile; so they are much welcome. AN: Assez in French means "enough" and the word "stay" is a term used in subsitution of corset, because the term "corset" wasn't coined until the 18th century. Enjoy!

_"Though dreams can be deceiving, like faces are to hearts, they serve for sweet relieving, when fantasty and reality lie too far apart." -Unknown_

* * *

Ever since she was a child, in the days before she could completely comprehend her native dialect and written language, Adela had always dreamt of a looming darkness. It lured her through mazes in her nightly visions, filling her ears with decadent words children often ate up like candied sweets. Adela had always been a child so easily pleased, and these words dripping with hidden motives took her hand countless of times deeper into her sleep to deceive her. And when the mind grew naïve and weak, as that is how humans begin their short lives, this darkness poured sinister sentiments the child knew not of into her pretty little head—sentiments one does not discover until the world had finally broken them down into a form of nothingness. These dark, curling wisps of blackness at times appeared to her as a handsome man, and his chiseled features made it all the more tempting to Adela as she grew with age. But child intuition was not as ignorant of dangers as her heart was, and within a few years on the month after her twelfth birthday, she banished the darkness from her dreams in hopes of its eternal departure. Therefore, the harboring nightmares of her early girlhood obliged her demands and disappeared… temporarily.

The way Adela was raised in the next four years proved to be a perfect distraction for her, keeping her dreams locked up for a longer term than expected. Adela grew up in a _noblesse chevaleresque _family, a family lineage of knightly nobility that predominantly existed prior to the year 1400. Her father's title of lineage gave him the additional benefit alongside his title of vicomté when accompanied with politics, and this placed a weight of responsibility on his children. The art of social decorum and proper etiquette required the elder Reneau children to reform themselves to perfection. This could never be the case for second eldest and first-born daughter, Adela. Adela could hear her mother's voice telling her to straighten her back, make her corset tighter, tilt her chin a little higher.

"Every movement a woman makes should be executed with the utmost care, for every mistake done under the eyes of the public could result in disaster," she remembered. While corsetry lengthened her spine and branded a confidence in her step, extensive reading informed her of proper mannerisms in a state of social representation, as well as educating her in the subjects of the arts, music, and teachings of composition. But there were some days when Adela felt everything she had done for her family was not enough. Being the first daughter of the family and the second eldest to her brother, Aldric, it is expected that both her and her brother find exceptional partners to further establish a greater bloodline of nobility and honor for their family. Aldric had set his eyes on many women, believing each one that passed to be the girl he shall marry. This gullibility for the wiles of women did not hinder his reputation, but instead furthered it so that several more women would return to win over his proposal. On Adela's side, however, her naturally flirtatious demeanor dubbed her as a woman not to be fooled with or fallen for. Her head seemed elsewhere, the French courtiers commented often, even though her manners, posture, and features were so impeccably refined and articulate.

Their flattery couldn't seem to impress her, and their conversations made themselves out to be such a bore. She could simply not achieve the one thing her mother had trained her for. Adela felt selfish for wanting more in a gentleman trying to win her hand, and she had at several moments of her life wished her younger sister Jacqueline to be the first daughter of the Reneau family. But three years her junior, with little Henri two years Jacqueline's junior, there was no other option but to enter the public's eyes at Aldric's side and play pretty. Once Adela reached the age where exposure was necessary to heighten reputation, sitting at the dinners and parties in respectful silence had caused her to continually reflect on two specific nights when the figure of her dreams appeared to her in reality. The events undoubtedly preoccupied her thoughts with persistence since their happenings, because the image of him that once faded into oblivion with her nightmares became sharp and vivid a second time, as if his face had been a daily feast to her eyes.

The age of fifteen and sixteen, two years where that childhood darkness took physical form in her life, settled the crucial instilments of her governess and mother's teachings before her face could be viewed by gentlemen's eyes. Though in the midst of womanhood and difficult development, Adela's rebellious temperament and inquisitiveness drew her into the habit of sneaking around, spying on the dinner guests through cracked doors when she had the opportunity. Both nights equally began with the pretense of falling into dreamland alongside her sister and brothers, and then the slow gait following the carpeted twists and turns of her manor followed until jocund laughter could be heard through the thin stream of light peaking out from the ballroom. Excitement had bubbled under her skin at the idea of disobeying her mother as she inched open the door far enough to get a clear view.

Low buzzing as a result of the discreet chatter amongst guests entered Adela's ears, and she could distinctly hear the thrill laughter of her mother's temporary friends across the ballroom. She spotted the prominent emerald likeness of her eyes to the left of where she hid, recognizing their curious brightness as her father turned away from two French diplomats after discussing international affairs. Watching her father closely, Adela's eyes carried themselves through the maze alongside him as he mingled with various crowds and exchanged polite bantering. It was only when he stopped at the end of the line, in front of a man nearly a head taller than her father, that Adela's mind clicked into astonished interest. He had looked so familiar to her, but it didn't register in her mind until the man turned his face in her direction. That piercing blue, intense and chilling all at once, the long silky blackness of hair, the face pale and polished like fine porcelain… it was enough to throw Adela's heart into a frightening frenzy.

Surely, her mind must have been playing a practical joke on her eyes, for how could such a man who has taken her hand in those vivid dreams since childhood be standing in her manor conversing with her _father_? And then, just as if he had shared the same thoughts as her in the middle of what appeared to be a delightful discussion with Monsieur Reneau, he turned his head to meet her widening eyes across the ballroom. His stare proved to be just as startlingly handsome as his approaching smile. Adela stood frozen in her tracks, suddenly embarrassed for trespassing on an event her age group should not be attending. Yet just as it started, it ended, and the broad shoulders of the man that disappeared from her dream world twisted to lead her father in another direction. The second encounter of this man, after a year of picturing his face behind her eyes when she would close them to sleep, happened just as the last, and Adela grew quite aware that the womanly curves of her body were ever-expanding year-by-year. She never saw his face again, other than its personal appearance in her dreams, where Adela flaunted the hourglass figure stays had shaped in her in hopes of fulfilling the naughty thoughts lingering in her imagination.

It wouldn't be until Adela reached the age of eighteen when she would be introduced to this mysterious figure, and everything: her world, her life, her emotions… would be changed forever.

* * *

_10 June, 1665  
__London_

_Every beginning must have an end, and every end must have a beginning. But when one reaches such an end, there may be yet another beginning behind it. We never know what life holds for us until the moment our body dies. With my sudden misfortune, I am afraid I have not yet left the body I died in. Thus, I am here to suffer knowing what could have been when I made the decision to leave mortality behind. To fully understand what I am trying to tell you, you must go back to the beginning of the end—the entire two years I spent trying to discover the true identity of a man I foolishly loved. I must tell you everything._

_Adela_

* * *

Paris, France  
1663  
Autumn

"Mademoiselle, Madame Reneau requests that you join her in the parlor for breakfast. She asks that I have you dressed as soon as possible due to the significant news she has to discuss with you," whispered her mother's maid, Cherine, who lightly pressed a hand into Adela's shoulder to wake her. The eighteen year-old turned in her bed and sighed in annoyance, slipping her feet onto the comforting warmth of the plush rug spread across her bedroom. Cherine ignored the young woman's unladylike groans and raised Adela's arms in order for her to properly help her into her layers of dress.

"Did I sleep late?" Adela murmured, inhaling sharply as Cherine tugged aggressively on the laces of her stay, cinching Adela's waist to an impossibly small measurement.

"No, my Lady. The madam rose early herself this morning, and only thought it polite for you to greet her in the parlor to discuss family matters while she takes her morning coffee," Cherine replied hastily, slipping the next four layers of fabric over Adela's head. Her calloused fingers worked with the lace and fastenings carefully, and Adela let a satisfied smile brighten her face as she looked over the feminine curves gracing her body under the layers of silk. She remembered how often she gawked at and envied her mother's beauty as a child, hoping that one day she would be gifted with the same strong and noble features. Adela's waist, for instance, matched the petite size of her mother's. Jacqueline, her younger sister who seems to have twice the luck as Adela when it came to physical beauty, had already started to grow into her features. Her neck would grow long and slender with each passing day, her skin a little finer, and her face a little thinner. Jacqueline would surpass her in every single way once she reached Adela's age.

Cherine motioned for Adela to seat herself in front of the vanity to arrange her hair, though this era she lived in did not care entirely for the extravagant styles. Attention to detail drifted solely to the state of dress and quality of fabric, for the French court was very particular with the latest trends and rules of attire. Her mother's maid fluffed out Adela's fine ringlets of curls cascading down her back, pinning a few stray locks away from her face before Adela could apply a moderate amount of rouge to her cheeks. The rose-colored powder livened her face quite a bit, and the faint presence of pink in her plump lips complimented the flushed appearance of her chest. Once Cherine removed her hands from Adela's hair, the young woman rose to her slipper-adorned feet and set off to meet her mother.

Evelien Reneau, from as far back as the moment she gave birth to her first child, ran her home on strict authority. Known in Adela's childhood years as the punishing parent when she wasn't in attendance with her governess, Evelien controlled any and every aspect of her children's lives so fit it be to her expectations. As the children grew, the two eldest in their prime years suitable enough to marry, Madame Evelien's authority ceased to neither waver nor falter. Adela managed to pull a faint smile on her face as her mother made her way across the room to kiss both sides of her daughter's cheeks, beckoning her to sit opposite of her across the end table.

"Mascarpone biscuits?" Evelien proffered.

Adela pinched a biscuit between her fingers and politely nibbled, the savory almond taste snapping her out of her premeditative state when she paired it with her cup of coffee.

"Your maid Cherine told me that you had important news to discuss with me?" she questioned. Her eyes lowered to her smooth hands—hands that have never seen a day of work in their lives and never planned on witnessing such a dreadful day.

"Yes, that," Evelien murmured. She, too, folded her hands in her lap, subconsciously straightening her shoulders and back in their trained alignment before she would deliver her news. "Aldric is engaged to be married," she stated, quite clearly and with the tiniest trace of disappointment etched in her voice. Adela fell silent. Time could never be crueler of a being than right now. The two years since she had been exposed to the happenings of the French court and watchful eyes of the public passed by in abrupt speed, and she had lived it out rather extravagantly for a woman as young as her. Men had tried to charm her in those short years, but Adela couldn't help that none of the courtiers caught her attention. She was very much like the wind to them, drifting them along in a path they have no choice but to follow, and as soon as she had them in her direction, she turned a different way—quite indecisive, yet dangerously charming to the ignorance of men. And here her elder brother was, a man who couldn't hold himself down to one woman, proclaiming his loyalty to a single lady for the rest of his life.

_We will see in a couple of years_, she thought.

"So soon?" were the words she could barely utter.

"Yes, I'm afraid. You see, dear Adela, I would be happier about this engagement if it meant you followed suit in the next three months. But you have pushed every eligible French courtier two steps behind you." She coughed quietly into her handkerchief, which resulted in sad attempt to distract Adela's thoughts before she let out the critical comments. "It's time you realized your future husband will never be up to par in your eyes, and you will have to live with that—"

"Mother!" Adela exclaimed. Her words stung Adela's ears, and the thought of having to blindly choose a husband in the three months following today made her hands ball into fists.

"_Assez_, Adela! _Assez_!" Evelien shouted back. "Do not raise your voice to me! God knows I have raised you better than this!" Her mother's face reddened considerably for a moment, and just as if the event had never happening, she stirred her coffee silently, continuing, "There will be a ball in a week's time to celebrate your brother's engagement. I expect you to select a few men who can tolerate your overactive imagination, for you will probably never see such unobjectionable men for the rest of your life. French courtiers shall certainly be there, but other possible suitors from foreign countries shall attend as well, and I expect you to share a dance with each of them."

Adela slackened her mouth in an attempt to speak, but her mother pressed a finger to her own lips to silence her. "Yes, mother," she relented, her eyes lowering to the fragile china holding her coffee. She didn't have much of an appetite anymore.

"Adela," her mother sighed. "This is what is expected of the nobles in the French court. I married your father when I was seventeen, and in truth I was not completely satisfied with my mother's choice. I do not regret it in the slightest." The green of Adela's eyes brightened with tears brimming on the edge of her lids while she stared down her mother. Age took to her beautifully, barely a wrinkle or flaw in sight. Looking back on the brief instances in her childhood, her mother looked genuinely happy when she stood beside her father. That happiness continued on into their adulthood, and like the jealous child she was, Adela pictured herself just as happy the day she married.

"You are beautiful, my child. Physically there is not a flaw diminishing your fine looks, but in your mind you must put away those fantasies of yours and face reality. I imagined my eldest daughter would be the most trying when it came to selecting a husband. It is because my eldest's beauty surpasses the women of the court," Evelien smiled, "and because she will succeed in having the most profitable and handsome husband the French could desire. I have faith in you, my daughter. Now go awaken your brother and sister for their lessons, everyone is sleeping dreadfully late this morning."

When Adela's mother mentioned handsome, she couldn't restrain the face of the man she caught a glimpse of two years ago from appearing in her mind. Silently she longed to meet him face-to-face and flaunt him to her mother, who would blush profusely in the presence of man as striking as him. But how could she be lucky enough to assume such an occurrence would happen? At this point in her very youthful life, she felt she would have to prepare herself for failure. There were many things Adela had to think about now, and she needed to think fast. First thing's first, she felt compelled to spill the surprising news to her sister Jacqueline. The walk across the manor had been a daily ritual of Adela's when there was so much to look at, and it became a kind of adventure in her younger years as a child. Nearly ten generations of portraits lined the halls, and the scholarly aspect of Adela's personality flew to the surface when she had the chance to study the brushwork and style of the paintings. Living up to the success of a family dating back to the days of knighthood intimidated her, and the least she could achieve in a situation as dire as this is to hold her optimism skyward the night of her brother's celebration.

Adela would try her best for her mother, and secure an easier life for her sister. These thoughts planted themselves deep within her mind as she cracked open the door to Jacqueline's bedroom. Her little sister lay sprawled across her bed, her ebony curls flung about the pillow in a soft disarray of contrasting colors. Jacqueline will never understand how lucky she is until she realizes her older sister had to marry for money and reputation, not love. She brushed her hand across the ivory skin of her sister's face, running her willowy fingers through Jacqueline's soft ringlets.

"Jacqueline, darling, mother wished for me to wake you," Adela paused when her sister didn't budge from her swatting hand. "I have some important news I need to tell you. It's about Aldric," she stated. With another gentle push and tap, Jacqueline's blue eyes edged open. They squinted and narrowed up at her older sister for a long minute until she sat up in her bed, a youthful smile suddenly appearing and making her face glow.

"Did you say Aldric?" she inquired, wondering the same as I would have on what could possibly be important about the eldest sibling. Jacqueline's brows furrowed when she watched her sister's expression change from mirth to despondency. "Did he claim a seat in office?"

"No," Adela laughed. "He is said to be engaged, Jacqueline. He found a lady to accept his hand."

"Are we speaking of the same Aldric? Our brother, Aldric?" Jacqueline asked with as much confusion as I had shown upon my face not thirty minutes ago. "He chose _one_ woman to be his wife? She must be _quite_ fulfilling—"

"Jacqueline!" Adela slapped her hand over Jacqueline's mouth in an instant. Jacqueline's figure shook with laughter under Adela's palm, and the silliness of the scenario infectiously forced Adela to crack a grin herself. "We know he takes to the carnal aspect of life too readily, and unfortunately yes, what I have told you is true. But you must not tell a soul! Mother will have my heart presented to her on a plate the second she finds I told such an announcement to you! I suppose she will let you and Henri know the secret in the next day or so, but I am required to attend the ball mother is holding in his honor. You know what this means, Jacqueline." Adela's features turned serious at the end of her statement, but her sister couldn't interpret the look she was giving her.

There came a sad sigh and an evermore puzzled expression from the younger sister who was too young to understand what it meant to hold responsibilities without selfish intentions.

"I am the firstborn daughter of this family, Jacqueline. When the eldest male of the house has found his selected bride, the eldest female must follow through with a second engagement quite close to the first. I am _not_ suitable for this role—it's too early, and _you're _the beauty of the family, Jackie, not me."

"Shh, Adela. Listen to yourself. Have faith, sister." Jacqueline gripped Adela's shoulders, pressing a delicate finger under her chin and raising it to its full and proud height. "I see mother's everlasting beauty in your face every single day. Who would not be lucky to have my sister as their wife? You are full of charm and wit, and dare I say could bring men to their knees if it wasn't such a scornful act to silently seduce men in public," she snickered. "I am almost too sure of myself that you will find your husband next week, and he will fall before you and proclaim you a goddess and kiss your jeweled hand a hundred times over. Don't forget to catch a glimpse of me peaking through the doors in your victory. Play a good game for me, Adela," Jacqueline winked.

The elder sister released a long-awaited exhale of relief, and held her sister close to her for a bittersweet moment.

"You constantly find ways to raise my spirits, Jackie. I don't know how to thank you."

"Thank me by telling me I was right after you proclaim a handsome prize. Let's call a maid here to get me dressed while you go wake Henri. I knew mother would be starting our lessons earlier soon enough." Jacqueline pushed off the bed and turned to face her mirror, beginning to remove her nightdress and picking at any imperfection she could spot amidst her curls.

Adela left her sister to her morning rituals and set off on the second walk to retrieve her brother. Her conversation with her sister had lifted Adela's spirits considerably, and more often than not she imagined herself winning her mother's approval the coming night of the ball. One way or another, she intended to find a handsome gentleman willing to pique her interest. They would dance to numerous songs and he would be besotted by her unique sense of banter, wishing to have her as his wife by the rising of tomorrow's sun.

Thus, the naivety of Adela's mind continued into the day, and nothing stopped her from picturing the perfect evening with her ideal husband. But happy endings could never be Adela's forte, for the fate that laid in store for her would be a tragic one.


	3. To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

**To anyone who still reads this story, I appreciate you having continued faith in reading this tale, for I am still very interested in how it ends. College and laziness are my unexcused excuses, and I can't promise frequent updates this summer. But as always, enjoy the read and reviews/criticism is very much welcome.**

_"The soul that can speak through the eyes can also kiss with a gaze." -Gustavo Adolfo Becquer_

* * *

"Dear sister, whatever is the matter? You look as if you were a corpse!" exclaimed Aldric, resting his hands on Adela's shoulders in as much mustered sympathy he could manage. "You should be rejoicing with me for tonight's celebratory party in honor of my engagement… but you look unhappy." Her brother's eyes faltered in vigor, drooping to a narrowed state of concern for Adela—the question, in truth, is whether or not this concern was feigned in order to tie up loose ends, or as they say, frayed nerves before the night festivities were to begin.

Adela, however apprehensive she felt knowing that once again she must present herself to the world as an eligible young flower for the taking, removed any trace of a crestfallen demeanor from her features and simply smiled at Aldric.

"I am merely anxious for this evening, Aldric, that is all. Mama has told me several times this week that I must be resolute in my selection of a potential husband. All the fun and games you played at my age when it came to suitors are over," winked Adela. "My fate rests in the hands of our guests tonight."

Aldric's features lightened considerably and he couldn't help but laugh at the sound of Adela wording her matrimonial troubles so intensely. "Ah, Adela, why are you investing so much of your worries on a party? Mama has given me the same lecture for years, and as you already know my future is safely set. Jackie tells me you have every intention of bewitching the entire ballroom with your pleasant eye." Her brother turned sideways to give additional commands to two servants helping with the décor of the ballroom, before he turned to face Adela once again. "Do as you intend, and take my advice, sister: keep mama's words out of that pretty little head of yours. She always tends to ruin the fun before the entertainment begins." At a sudden crash resounding in the room adjacent to them, Aldric started off at a fast gait in the direction of the accident, bidding Adela a quick farewell and good wishes before his other preoccupations consumed him.

A sort of fear began to stir within her at the thought of this night once she was left to her thoughts. Excitement also lingered there, both emotions waiting to be ignited the moment she steps two feet into the ballroom on this forthcoming evening. Her dreams had grown more vivid, heavier in tension and emotion that she could practically see the energy emanating off of her body in those visions. The man she had seen twice in her life and countless of times in her dreams would now whisper unintelligible things to her, and on sleepless nights Adela spent hours deciphering what he could possibly be saying. Among those hours laying wide awake and breathless from the sequence of images repeating in her mind, she could come up with three words, "Come to me." The words, as simplistic as they were, haunted her in her waking hours. The way he stressed every accent, every syllable uttered from his beautiful lips wrought everlasting chills through her body when she thought about them. She could not think about such a man tonight—not once and not ever again as she finds her husband-to-be among the hundreds of suitors attending the celebration.

Over a week's time her mother had been able to pull together and direct every statue, plant, crystal cutlery and plating into the manor without hearing a thundering crash or shriek echo through the crowded halls. The tapestries had been dusted, the floors polished numerous times, and the rooms cleaned extensively for overnight guests wishing to spend a few additional days in lieu of the celebration. A stage had been set, and it was up to Adela to play the part and look her most glorious. Parties like this one had not been very different from the manifold others she attended in the not-so-distant past. The only stark difference now versus then was that it was out of necessity for her to acquire a man and not tease him with her mystery and deception as she had done so on countless occasions.

The night drew nearer by the hour, and with each passing tick of the clocks dispersed throughout her home came the inevitable clenching of Adela's stomach, for she couldn't help but fear for the worst. Was it supposed to be a relieving thought when Aldric mentioned he had been lectured numerous times by their mother about marriage, and here he was with his destined-to-be under the neatly pinned veils strung up for his engagement party? It would take a fool to know one; Adela and Aldric shared similar tastes in their methods of flirtation, not to mention their appeal to lazing about life until it slapped their cheeks in discourse. Perhaps fate would be in her favor tonight—perhaps on the eve of Aldric's affirmation of engagement Adela could ensure her mother's happiness with a man of some foreign land. She dared let her mind wander momentarily to the exotic shores of Italy, the thick foliage of India, and even the mystery the thirteen colonies brought in their wake.

Every pull and tug of the strings of her stay symbolized her unwillingness to become enclosed in the throngs of society. She wished to belong in the recesses of her happiness, to be free and changing in a long lost love several women aspire to imagine. Society in general and even the strict infrastructure of the French court struck an acrid taste on her tongue. _Grant me a gypsy man of some mysterious country. A refined one, yet savagely witty_, she prayed. Fold after fold of her manner of dress flew over her head, increasingly securing her destiny in a world she felt not a part of. The rouge and coal applied to her artificially pale skin, the curling of her glossy chestnut locks into perfected disarray, and the glimmering jewels fastened to her delicate figure denoted the finished _chef-d'oeuvre_ of her person. Adela was ready to face her audience head-on, with the help of the true stars of this evening's celebration, of course.

Jacqueline met her at the top of the grand stairs, taking Adela's hand in her own to comfort the wired nerves of her sister.

"Come, come, dear Adela. _Tu es belle_. You will steal every man's heart tonight. They will all think they have come in celebration of your beauty rather than our foolish brother's betrothal." Jacqueline's mouth curved upwards, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, I cannot wait until I am your age to take part in this excitement! Go on, sister, I will be watching you from afar." With a light push, Jacqueline nudged Adela around the corner to link arms with their father, Grégoire Reneau. The moment had been timed perfectly, for the pronouncement of titles for the residents of Reneau manor had just begun.

"How is my little _bonbon_ this evening? I hope your mother has treated you well this past week with all the preparations in order. She can become a little unreasonable when hosting," he stated, patting his daughter's hand affectionately as they descended the staircase one step at a time. Adela smiled back at her father, eyes shining with warmth at the comfort Grégoire brought to her whenever concerns crept up her spine unsuspectingly.

"I am well, Papa. Isn't it exciting watching your first-born marry at a young age? Mama says Aldric has already established quite the partnership with the eldest son of the Chevalier family." Adela looked ahead, her cheeks burning once she realized the massive number of guests that filled the ballroom, all silent in their anticipation of becoming reacquainted with the members of the host family.

Grégoire Reneau snuck a sideways glance at his daughter, eyes softening when he noticed her bottom lip shook with unease at the sight of the numerous court nobles and families making way for introductions.

"Yes, it is exciting to see Aldric find a bride that suits his… changing personality. However, this occasion is also saddening, for it means I may lose you as my lovely daughter in the process. You can find your husband tonight."

"Oh, don't become disheartened so quickly, father. There is no man in this very room as I can see that holds my interest. There will be a few years ahead of me before I am able to—"

Adela's statement unfinished, she watched the spectacle ahead of her, color draining from her face in an instant. A man stood not twenty feet away in the path her feet would eventually carry her, staring as intensely as she in identical direction. She swallowed the lump that began to form in her throat, for all things impossible in that moment became unimaginably possible. The smooth porcelain face proved exact to the face she had brushed her fingers against in her dreams, the deep bottomless ocean of his eyes she'd gazed into on limitless nights seemed to smile at her as she reached the base of the staircase, and his hair—the smooth ebony locks Adela ran her long fingers through shone off the candlelight in a beautiful blue hue. _It wasn't possible._

She blinked several times to clear the vision she thought had run a tad cloudy in the past five minutes, beseeching her maker that this was not merely a mirage spun to her desires. As soon as the man appeared, he was gone, blending into the massive crowd of guests until she could see him no more.

"Adela, dear? You were saying?" inquired her father after they had unlinked arms at the announcement of their titles.

Adela closed her eyes a moment, wishing for her sanity to be in check this evening. "Sorry, Papa. My thoughts took me away a moment. I meant it would be another couple of years before a man ever took my hand in marriage."

"Nonsense! You are the gem of the evening. It may be a celebration for your brother and his betrothed, but all eyes will fall to you because of your eligibility. Haven't you noticed the selection of men at the party tonight? They are both foreign and domestic, a variety from which you can pick at your whim. I want my daughter to be smitten with her husband, just as your mother and I are happy in our union." Grégoire beamed as he parted from his daughter. Teary-eyed at his wishes, Adela whispered a brief thank you and walked in the opposite direction to greet her brother and his fiancée before _le dîner_ commenced.  
They were huddled in the center of the entrance hall trying to politely accept congratulations from a number of people as Adela approached. Aldric's fiancée, Brigitte, looked quite relieved at the sight of his sister intervening. "Brigitte! How very lovely it is to see you!" Adela welcomed, pulling her future sister-in-law's hands into hers and kissing her rosy cheeks cordially.

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Adela. You look quite ravishing this evening, my dear!" Brigitte's smile, genuine every time, grew wider when her eyes fell to Adela. Always the sweet girl who never refrained from sharing a kindness, Adela wondered what brought the young woman into the clutches of her brother. Her soft, ivory features reflected the embodiment of innocence, while her brother's hardened, chiseled mien foiled that innocence with corruption. She would have expected a woman with a lust for gold to have married Aldric, though she found quite the opposite standing in front of her.

"Nonsense, Brie. You are the jewel of Aldric's eye, and I'm sure he intends to show you off as the treasure you are to our guests. Keep him in check with the spirits, will you?" she added in for good measure. "We can't have your fiancé blabbering rubbish to future business consorts."

Aldric put a hand to his chest in mock pain, causing Adela and Brigitte to giggle at his accusatory stare. "I would never!"

Brigitte scoffed and took Aldric's arm around hers, taunting lightly, "Now, now, dear, you know how you get when they pop open the champagne at supper. Sisters like to joke." Steering him away from his mischievous sister and taking a brief moment to wink at Adela in assurance, they, too, disappeared into the crowd.

It was a brief second so quick that Adela wouldn't catch it, but she never noticed how Brigitte's left hand brushed faintly against her not-yet-swollen abdomen as the couple walked away.

The true festivities began twenty minutes after a series of a hundred reintroductions that passed by in a blur, giving Adela both a headache and a serious appetite for sugary pastries to keep her feet on the ground. Traditional dancing arrived before the banquet could be served as custom, and she discovered that she was not only starving and light-headed, but also incredibly thirsty. Having not seen her family members since the beginning of the evening, with the servers of wine-filled goblets nowhere in sight to sate her thirst, Adela submitted to the next hour of dance. After five or six twirls with aristocrats across the globe, her wits took a toll on her as per usual when the conversations grew dull and the men all looked the same. Germany, Spain, and minor countries alike have beat other nations to a dance with the bachelorette; three of them did not speak a word of French, and two had little to enquire about since her voice fell on ears that did not listen. As the music went from a moderate tempo to a slow waltz, Adela turned just in time to meet the dark eyes of a French marquis. He smiled kindly at her, to her surprise, dropping into a low bow with his hand extended toward her own, waiting.  
"May I?"

Blinking with curiosity, her hand settled in the crook of his. "You may," she sniffed, allowing him to sweep her across the ballroom floor. Her gown twirled about her ankles as they turned, his smooth footing appealing rather impressively to her tastes. "What is your name, monsieur, so that I can compliment you for suave manner and notable dancing technique?" Adela inquired out of need to make small talk with her dance partners.

"I am Christoph, Mademoiselle Reneau. Christoph Fortescue." He was rather dark-skinned for his status, sporting a golden tan physique from many hours in the sun. Tall, with curls the color of sand. It was his eyes that made him distinctly French: heavy-lidded and dark, and Adela couldn't help but release a sigh of relief at her findings.  
_Charming_, she thought. _A possibility, too_.

"It is a pleasure to meet a man who shares my native land, Christoph. Tell me, monsieur. What sort of gentleman attends a celebratory engagement party without a lady on his arm, hmm?" she smirked, pressing her right palm against his left as they spun in circle adjacent to other couples. "I am told that this party is a ploy to find me a proper suitor to court. Have you not heard stories of my flirtations before you made the decision to respond to the invitation? I am a trickster in the ways of men, and yet you continue to dance with me in hopes of pleasing my eye."

Christoph returned a smirk of his own, curling Adela toward his body in the finale of the dance; his hands brushed momentarily against the curves of her waist, bearing upwards until both were palm-to-palm and finishing with a bow. "Rumors can be falsified, my lady. I suspect you are not as much of a faerie as most believe. You create an image of yourself that you wish others to see." He brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a parting kiss into her palm, his eyes burning into her own as he released her hand. "I, for one, see the woman behind the image and would like to know her as she is now, not as others prefer to imagine her. _Bonsoir_, Adela. Shall I see you again?"

"Only if you can properly seek me out, Christoph," she teased. "_Bonsoir_."

He excited her, she'll give him that. Maybe that is enough for a marriage, to keep it going. Christoph has wit and confidence, which is something that primarily lacks in the French court. Surely he would be filled to the brim with stories of old, tales of lands her eyes would never see in this lifetime. He would sate her thirst for adventure and match her breadth of knowledge only a nobleman's daughter can acquire. _Then, yes_. _That is enough_.

Dwelling on the miniscule thoughts of her new interest distracted Adela from a heavy presence in the room. The energy felt powerful, mysterious, and dangerous all at once… and familiar. It took only a minute to pass by before she recognized a shift in the air, causing her arms to shake with trepidation.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I believe we haven't yet been introduced to each other this evening." Adela knew who he was before she turned around. She recognized the rich accent of his voice and how it seemed like he was inwardly laughing about some undiscovered secret she did not know of. He had been a figment from her dreams in passing, a threat to her clouded version of reality. It continued to amaze her that such a thing existed as a man she had known, but never met, since she was a child. One thing was certain in this fateful meeting, she knew of: Adela can finally connect the thresholds of reality and fantasy and know his name as it is in this world. Even if he did not know her, even if she could be truly insane, she would be able to get to know this man for how the world shaped him, and not how her mind knew of him. She turned, hesitant to face him.

He was breathtaking to look at. It took all of her to gather her skirts in her hands and curtsy to him, this figure of lust and mystery and darkness that blossomed her white rose into a deep crimson in her nightly visions. "Adela Reneau," she pronounced, eyelids fluttering closed out of fear at what he would see if he stared into them.

"Count Vladislaus Dracul. It is a pleasure to meet the second eldest of the Reneau family." Very similar to Christoph, Vladislaus bent over to kiss her hand in greeting. These lips, when put conversely against Christoph's warmth, felt like ice on her skin, and she quivered in response to the slightest touch. "May I have this final dance, Adela?" She averted her eyes when his azures dared to gaze.

It was that hope of learning him; hope to find out any similarity between the man before her and the man in her dreams that thrust Adela into his attentions to accept his dance. "Certainly."

His hands were even colder than his lips.

Mouth sealed in stitches of fretfulness and amazement, Adela merely glanced about the ballroom to distract herself, and judging in the way the Count carefully spun and dipped her in the ways of the dance, she could sense her distraction added to his unforeseen interest. Not a friendly soul in sight, she decided making conversation with him would comfort her better than saying nothing at all. The Count's efforts had only gone so far as to ask her to dance, and Adela felt unimaginably rude for not meeting up with her etiquette.

"Have we ever met before, monsieur?" she asked falsely. "You look rather familiar. Were we perhaps acquainted at one of my father's political soirees?"

He laughed in response, a deep and magnetizing laugh that drew her in, and she found herself leaning closer into the proximity of space left between them, until he uttered, "Perhaps, _once upon a dream_." A joke, of course? But then, as he chanced a look at her startled reaction, he added in recompense, "Surely, I would remember a face of such enchanting beauty as yours if we had met before. I am afraid this is our first, and may I hope not our last, encounter."

Adela blinked back the fire he had ignited in her eyes, for he had managed to embarrass and flatter her in a matter of a minute. "If I didn't know better, I would say you were trying to trifle with my looks and insult my intelligence all in the same statement, Monsieur Dracul. No man has dared to speak so boldly to a woman lest it be behind her back."

"Men and women of my homeland are free to share their opinions unless they are given precaution otherwise. I am well aware that women prefer the chatter of courtly gossip in France rather than the politics of the old worlds—"

"There you go again, monsieur!" Adela shouted at the most polite octave she could muster without disturbing other guests. "We women of France are educated in numerous subjects, far more refined than the English. Gossip is a pastime I do not take enjoyment in."

"Then, if you will have it, I would greatly appreciate your company at a later date, and perchance we may battle our wits at politics or whatever subject you wish to debate on, my lady." Count Dracul separated himself from Adela at the height of their rising argument, detecting the passion in her voice as a sign that their dance must end. Releasing her waist and hand from his grasp, he politely tipped his head in her direction to dismiss himself.

For he thrilled and haunted her, and she had only known him for less than an hour. He had successfully beat her at her own game of flirtation and scorn, and she hadn't known it. Her remembrances of their touches in her dreams, their insatiable hungers that filled her not fully matured appetite, knowing that he was not this phantom of her own intimate visions; it all pained her mind enough to not hold a stable conversation with him.

What was he doing to her? Can she fall into a more twisted style of insanity than she had already created? He looked at her like he _knew_ her, yet he denied any trace of recognizance when words blazed like wildfire from their lips. She wasn't even _dancing_, for the love of god.

"We shall see," she retorted in reply, but it had been minutes since he left her standing in the center of the couples swaying in their unified bows and curtsies, a sign that dinner had just begun.

* * *

_June 10__th__, 1665  
London, Nightfall_

_Our first encounter that night was the beginning of my end. I loved him before we had the chance to speak. I hated him, too. I hate him, still._

_Adela_


	4. Quell The Fires

As promised, here is the fourth chapter of _Shadows_. Read and review if you like, I appreciate the feedback!  
_  
"Her heart was a secret garden, and the walls were very high." - The Princess Bride_

* * *

Adela's parents greeted her in the archway separating the ballroom from the main hall, urging her past the many guests before Grégoire raised his glass to toast for the happiness of Aldric and Brigitte in their future union. All couples were directly seated across from each other save for her father Grégoire and her mother Evelien, who sat at opposing ends of the table as the designated hosts. Guests that had arrived without a matching pair were randomly placed in accordance to their ranks, and Adela, much to her equal satisfaction and disdain, sat at her father's end of the table across from both Christoph and Vladislaus. Other ladies-in-waiting that had decided to attend the party mixed in with the domestic and foreign male courtiers near her, fluttering their fans every which way to extract any ounce of attention off of the men seated nearby—it was one thing Adela can say benefitted her half as much as she had hoped. A representative from India very much shriveled from age and hours spent in the sun sat across from her with Christoph and Vladislaus on either side of him. Both watched with satisfaction as Adela seated herself, taking the time to arrange her skirts appropriately so to keep her person occupied for the moment. The Indian man made for decent conversation when the skirts fell perfectly flattened on her lap, and she made sure to urge the traveler on about various trades in the work whether it be silk or cigarettes—she needed to be busy, attentive to the businessman, and completely engrossed in his conversation until the courses were served in order to ignore those who planned to steal away her attentions for the duration of the night.

She made eager dialogue with her father after the toast ended, asking after the possibility of him doing business this evening with a few other representatives. Grégoire, perfectly ignorant of the motions the two men across from his daughter were making to gain her consideration, soaked up his daughter's attentiveness happily. Their conversation went on until the food was divvied out to every guest, and when each had had their fill over the first course, Adela turned to her left and addressed a fellow friend of hers, Lady Mallorie. The two girls had long been acquaintances since their girlhood, never growing relatively close until they breached the delicate year of fifteen where appearance ruled over petty ideals. While Adela rebelled against nature, preferring to wear her petticoats around the manor and flourish her looks to men in a dangerous fashion, Mallorie adhered to the code of womanhood and took on a natural demeanor of quietude. They had long since turned separate ways, composing letters for each other now and then, but nothing more. Parties recently drew them into conversation quite often, and the two took comfort in the opportunity of exchanging carefree words when the company of the room proved too restricting for their tastes.

"Mallorie," she whispered, dipping her chin low to stress the privacy she desired for their conversation. Her friend lowered her head in reply, leaning close enough that Adela's mouth was shielded by Mallorie's mass of blonde curls. "What do you know of the Count that is sitting across from you?" She chanced a peek at her subject of banter, not surprised that his eyes darted in her direction, brows raised in amused question.

Mallorie feigned a look at Count Dracul, a blush of red staining her pale cheeks at one glimpse. "You don't know?" Adela shook her head in reply. She moved in closer to block out any eavesdropping, stating in a hushed murmur, "He has a reputation around Europe for deflowering ladies-in-waiting. Some say he is not wholly human, others speak only of his undeniable charms when preying on courtly youth. What I do know," she added, tone growing certain as her story progressed, "is that the girls people have seen him with after a night of unspoken pleasure leave his room the next morning in a daze. He avoids seeing them once they are debauched, and rumor has it that the girls wither away into a sickness, ceasing to attend court or make appearances at parties."

When Mallorie finished her tale, it was Adela's brows that rose in question this time. She looked at him again. He had turned to speak with a courtier to his right, appearing to not notice her heavy stare she gave him with the newfound gossip her friend bequeathed unto her.

"It is only a tale, surely," Adela laughed. "A very entertaining one, Mallorie, but unrealistic. Who would believe that a mere man can make women so desperate for his advances that they die?" she scoffed. "It's preposterous. Besides, he isn't as attractive as that little fiction makes him out to be."

_Lie_, her inner voice whispered. He was mesmerizing to her, strange, frustrating. But not unhandsome. And he wasn't the same man who walked through her dreams in every stage of her life. His brusque, foreign accent told her otherwise, but it was stupid of Adela to believe in such extraordinary pretenses her mind conjured up. Of course he wouldn't know her.

"They are just tales, Adela. But even tales come with some truths. So please, as my lovely friend, watch yourself. I know you are under pressure from your mother to find a man to court you. My younger sister is already marrying before me, which puts me in a similar place as you." Mallorie lowered her utensil to her plate and rubbed her hands together in her lap nervously. Adela reached out and placed a hand over Mallorie's, stilling the tremors she herself had similarly experienced not an hour ago.

"I understand. You needn't worry of me, Mal. I wasn't insulting your concerns or your fascination with telling cultural myths," she laughed. Eyes flickered to Count Dracul. "He is quite the charmer, but I've dealt with the nonsense of men for two years and won't tolerate another one who only wishes to woo me into bed." She squeezed Mallorie's hand kindly, tucking into the third course of the night without another look about the room.

Supper was always meant to be a social event to the noblesse, but neither Mallorie nor Adela cared to conquer the height of the conversation. She had preferred to notice the other women a year or two older than her in attendance that she could speak with, but they sat on her mother's end of the long table, and it was considered rude to mingle away from one's seat while in the middle of a meal. Not many men wanted her attentions, either, as she had expected. Rumors were funny things, twisting the poetic words of the wicked into something more treacherous and scandalous after months of gossip. She heard she was a flirt one day, which turned into a cruel seducer the next. Some called her vain, while others spoke of her notable beauty as a mask for a secret ailment of barrenness—an excuse as to why she hadn't fallen into the throws of matrimony just yet. But the French Court was never one for silence or obeisance as the English Court is; the women of the French Court proved to be the most outspoken and opinionated of the world, the most intelligent, the most forward, and the most beautiful. Foreign diplomats tended to shy away of such strong women, which is particularly why Vladislaus confused her with his unshed interest.

Even now he dared to look at her during supper, his mediocre attempt at etiquette proving to be futile as Adela picked at her roasted potatoes.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Dracul, but is there something you wish to say to me? You haven't kept your eyes from my face for the entire feast. Have I a smudge of bouillon on my cheek?" She let her impertinent tone take full reign in the rude comment, taking a swift look at the Count before she resumed eating.

Vladislaus smirked in her direction, catching the wandering eye of Adela's friend Mallorie, who looked suddenly stricken with nausea and terror at the look of him. "I wished to tell you that your gown looks quite, how do you French say it? _Enchanteur_. Your seamstress must have slaved over it for weeks to bring it up to the level of beauty that matches your own."

Mallorie choked on a piece of meat. Thankfully the noise of those voices in attendance at supper did not dwindle into an awkward silence at his comment and her friend's struggle for air, but Adela swallowed uneasily.

"Thank you," she responded, not knowing how to answer such a quick remark.

"Monsieur Dracul," a meddlesome lady-in-waiting, perhaps a year younger than Adela herself, began. "Tell all of us who haven't had the privilege of traveling outside of France how the women are in Wallachia. What are the fashions? Are they as learned of literature as us French ladies?"

The women seated closest to Grégoire's end of the table shook their heads in deprecation at the Lady Blanche's unwitting comment. While dressing customs are certainly expressed at international soirees, it is a known fact that women of other lands are not spoken about because it appears as if they are being judged for their differing culture. Blanche, of course, had not been aware that she inadvertently insulted the Count's home country; her face stayed supreme and always too serious for wear, and both Adela and Mallorie exchanged secretive smiles under their hands.

The Count found some kindness in his heart to spare her humiliation and laugh it off, throwing in an unnecessary tale or two to satisfy her youthful appetite before the meal reached its conclusion. Blanche gleaned her most practiced smile his way; flourishing her looks in the manner her mother had trained her. The unawareness of Blanche's mistake became known on the rest of the ladies' faces—she would soon learn of the rights and wrongs eventually, as had the rest of the ladies in attendance once learned at that same age.  
A few departing speeches were made to signal the close of a long night as soon as dessert had been served. Those intending to stay a night or two after the celebration fell behind to chat with the quitted guests retiring for the evening until the servants showed them to their rooms. Adela, on the other hand, planned a quick getaway with Mallorie to her quarters since her friend's parents elected to stay the night. The invitation was spontaneous, but they had much catching up to do, and she didn't want her sister to wait any longer for the details of the evening she had so yearned to fill her ears with. The pair ascended the stairs as fast as their feet could carry them, running like gleeful children hallway by hallway, passing closed and open doors that awaited and contained eventual guests filled with the fire of drink in their bellies. For those minutes passing into a peak of mirth stirring in Adela's heart, she was able to forget for a second the mysterious man of the hour. She twirled about in her skirts with Mallorie in her arms, mimicking the unfortunate dancers she had the duty to cavort with on her mother's word. The girls danced up and down the corridors for what seemed like hours, planning to make the trip to Adela's room in a delightful scurry, until Adela collided with a solid body after rounding the final corner. It had already been an hour after dinner ended, and she didn't entirely expect to see a guest in sight, and she without a doubt did not plan to stare at the face of her half made-up lover. She expected it to be just as that night in her youth, peeking in on a party through a cracked door, a flash of his face, a quirk of his smile, and then nothing.

But fate had a funny way of working its magic. When Adela envisioned herself hitting the carpeted floor with her back, taking Mallorie down with her, she felt the quickness of sturdy hands curling up beneath her instead. Her tightly shut eyelids opened to meet the harsh blues of the man who caught her, and Adela soon as ducked out of his arms without a second's thought. Mallorie had managed to steady herself before the fall. She stared around the corner of the hall at the spectacle until her friend beckoned her to her side.

"Lady Adela, if I wasn't mistaken I'd say your clumsiness knows no bounds this evening. You've been apt to be clumsy with your words and _now_your footing, I'm afraid," Count Dracul smiled as Mallorie joined her, skirts clutched anxiously in her left hand.

"And if I wasn't mistaken, Count, I'd tell you that your tongue is just as clumsy with words. You slip offensive comments into conversations when they are most unnecessary, monsieur," Adela clipped. She sent out a silent prayer to the Lord in that moment, knowing how discomforting it would be if she and Mallorie had been in their petticoats by now.

"My apologies." He pressed a hand to his chest in respect and bowed to the two of them. "I did not know it was impolite to tell a woman how lovely she looks after hours of preparation for another five hours of weary dancing and dining. Thibaut was just telling me the history of your estate again before I decided to turn in to my room for the night. I did not mean to be in your ladies' way."

Vladislaus did not once look in Mallorie's direction through his prolonged apology. He stared again at Adela, his eyes betraying that knowing look she could have sworn as recognition etched in his features—it sent tremors through her bones and up her thighs.

"You—you're staying tonight?" she questioned, angrily stumbling over the words that couldn't surface to her lips.

"But of course," he answered. "I did request to see you again, didn't I?"

Mallorie's squeak of reproach didn't do any good in making the encounter less uneasy as Adela's speechless mien. The Count didn't wait for the answer to his rhetorical question, however. Thibaut had motioned in the direction of the east wing at the perfect time, and Count Dracul did nothing to object continuing the history lesson as they pressed onwards into the dim light of the hallway. Jacqueline was waiting on Adela's bed, too eager to pace any longer, and Mallorie had appeared so distinctly pale in the candlelight that Adela feared she would collapse any second when they reached her bedchamber.

The two friends did not disclose an overbearing amount of details to Jacqueline, much to her dismay. But to say the least, Adela admitted she had bitten off more than she can chew, and although it pleased her to know her mother would not be pressing for courtiers anymore, something amiss was brewing between the Count and her… and she can't say it left her wholly content when she went to sleep come moonrise.

_They met in her dream-structured bedroom under the faux light of the moon. She decided against speaking words to him and replaced them with kisses instead, which grew to touches, which turned into a hunger they had not yet sated in her imaginings. Adela had writhed underneath his touch, her dainty skirts beginning to pool around her hips when his kisses became more frequent and his hands more prone to wander._

_He had just rolled the stockings from her dainty feet when Adela fired the words forming on her lips without overlooking them first. "Tell me," she sighed, smoothing her hands across the planes of his chest when he dipped his mouth into the crook of her neck. "Why do you not recognize me when we are not in this dream world? You shouldn't exist, but I saw you today, spoke to you, and even danced with you." Before she could utter any other nonsensical thoughts he had reclaimed her lips against his own, kissing her until her mouth swelled a deep pink, nibbling until Adela started to release noises she couldn't recognize in her other world. "Are you real? Or am I truly mad?"_

_He chuckled, mouth running past her jaw and down her neck to keep her distraction at a high and her talking to a low. "I am as real as you would like me to be, love. Madness is the genius of the heart."_

_"But that doesn't answer my question." Adela pulled away, frowning. Though it was indeed distracting with his hands about her thighs, she needed to pull an answer from him. This dream wasn't of the common ones she had, not since he had reappeared two years ago when she breached womanhood. If she was going to discover anything, it was going to be some sort of truth she had been trying to pluck from her mind for weeks now. "How can you exist inside my head, and then exist outside of it without having ever met me before in my life? I know you," she said, saddened. "But you do not know me."_

_His hands curled under the sensitive skin of her legs, climbing higher and higher until her skirts bunched into the valley of her waist. Her bodice had been fully untied and yanked down, and the suggestive Adela she knew well inside her dreams had not a care in the world that she lay naked against her lover. She hadn't a care that she could bare all of her flesh and continue a conversation with him in the midst of their passions. That is what she imagined lovers would be like, hadn't she?_

_He had just then rolled her onto her back, eyes roaming the lines and curves of her figure as he searched for the appropriate answer._  
_"Who said I didn't know?" he teased, unfastening the ties of his breeches with haste._

_Adela stopped him again, looping her fingers through his unoccupied hand to hush his excitement for a minute. Her lips pursed with displeasure._

_"Stop lying," she demanded. "I don't like your word games, and I certainly didn't like the word play I encountered from the man I met this evening. Tell me," Adela repeated. "Are you one of the same?"_

_He played with their fingers, bringing her hand up to press a tender kiss into her wrist. "I am a figment of your dreams, love. It is you who must discover the truth behind your encounters when you wake. You might be mad, you might be right, or you might be completely wrong in your assumptions. But forget this talk of nonsense." He placed an open-mouthed kiss on her neck. "Enjoy this," he hushed. His mouth dropped lower, winding between the hills of her breasts and down to her belly. And then lower._

_A blazing swarm of heat surrounded her, and she was suddenly aware of falling into an ecstasy she thought she'd never know of outside these visions. He was everywhere, inside and out, all at once. She fancied a person could die from this much pleasure. His entire mouth lingered over every inch of her body, telling her to forget, to fade into the oblivion of the moment until all she could feel was the blissful height of their passion, until everything went black._

Adela let out a shriek of desire in the sheets of her bed, sitting up so rapidly that her head spun from the rush of blood pumping frantically through her veins. Sweat clung to her across her arms, behind her neck, and along her stomach and thighs, tangling her into a mess of twisted sheets and matted curls.

The burning ache had not receded from between her legs, and the remnant swell of a sting across her flushed lips refused to weaken the remainder of the night.

Sleep did not lull her into its comforting arms as the heat consumed her. Though Adela was thankful that none had awoken from her embarrassing cries, she wished she had a friendly voice to talk her back to slumber until _he_ceased to haunt her thoughts and dreams. As quiet as she could manage, she unwound herself from the maze of sheets and padded her feet across the plush carpet of her floor. The candles had all but been extinguished, and Adela reached for the tiny candlestick she kept in the drawer beside her bedchamber door. She needed some sort of preoccupation in order to get back to a peaceful sleep, and sitting around while her sister and friend slept until drowsiness consumed her did not seem the ideal picture at the moment. Every hallway had a winding, unyielding eeriness to them that only the early morning could bring, but Adela knew that however long the walk would be, her destination would comfort her more than anything.

The library sat in the east wing of the manor, ten different hallways away and one flight of stairs midway. Her father began keeping a constant fire in the vicinity after discovering his daughter's insatiable appetite for knowledge. On various nights her family would find her curled into the settee, open book resting flat on her chest while the fire's embers dimmed into hot coals. It was her favorite escape from the world when life's malice obstructed her peace of mind, and one of the most common places she could get lost in when her fights with her mother grew out of hand.

Adela gave a light push to the slightly ajar door and peered inside. The fireplace roared bright against the contrast of the hundreds of bookcases; three open tomes sat on the edge of the table in front of her beloved divan. Not a living soul was in sight. She walked at a slow gait toward the table, running her finger along the spines of the volumes to brush the dust from the embossed titles. A pair of footsteps encroached behind her and Adela, startled, turned abruptly in the direction of the sound, book raised high in her grasp.

"Lady Adela, I hadn't expected to see you until later this morning, I believe." His deep tenor resonated in the pit of her chest, quelled fire rising to a searing blaze at the sight of his face.

"What _are_ you doing here?" she demanded, heart pounding in her chest like a hammer.


	5. The Art of Courting

Merry Christmas, dearies! After enduring a pretty rough semester of college, I finally got around to cranking out chapter 5 for you all! This will be my official Christmas present to any remaining readers, and as always, enjoy and please review!

_"What we do in dreams we also do when we are awake: we invent and fabricate the person with whom we associate—and immediately forget we have done so."_  
– Nietzsche

* * *

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, heart pounding in her chest like a hammer.

"Every time we meet I feel as if I owe you a hundred apologies for simply looking at you, Mademoiselle Reneau," he observed, using her formal name of address out of wariness, she presumed. The book sitting in the deathlike vice of her palm lowered in likeness with the candlestick back to a resting place on the table. Adela sidestepped out of the Count's way to give adequate space between them.

"Maybe that is because your apologies are well-deserved. Your forthrightness offends me, sir," she responded.

"Then I will ask for your permission the next time I wish to be so bold with you," he quipped. Her stomach churned with a mix of rekindled fire and sickliness as he walked closer to where she stood at the hearth. She averted her eyes when she found his fixed upon her; the rising pink in her cheeks not quite helping the matter, either. "Forgive me, Adela. I'm afraid I am quite the insomniac when I travel far distances." He waited for her reaction at using the most informal stretch of her name this time, and she could practically hear the grin that pulled on his lips when she flinched at the exemption of _Lady_ or _Mademoiselle_. "Reading is my single cure to that ailment, and there were no books to choose from in the guest chambers."

Her unfailing courage is what made her look up, and Adela put on a brave face, looking at him fully for what would be the second proper time that night. He gave the _impression_ of wanting to hold her interest. He wasn't gawking or leering at her inappropriate attire, or playing a game of sharp words to watch her quake under his stare. _Wait_, Adela paused in her thoughts. _Attire!_She made to cover her thin garment with her arms, wrapping them as if they were ten times as long around her body once she realized her faults. The Count took notice of her discomfort and made for the throw blanket draped over the back of the settee. Adela threw up her arms in protest, but he insisted on making her as comfortable as need be, and soon she had been seated with the blanket wound about her—Count Dracul took liberties to seat himself in the armchair across from her, looking away until she settled into the cushions without any more complaint.

A moment passed where the pair tucked into their habitual ways of carrying themselves before either could continue the tense conversation. Adela made for folding her hands in her lap, trying to even out her quick breathing. The Count merely crossed a leg over his knee and picked up another tome she had observed earlier; he leafed through the pages with a searching, almost false earnest.

"I like to go here when I can't sleep," she started, the silence of the library becoming unnerving for the first time. "I've been having nightmares that keep me from sleeping properly. It's been months now." A bit timid at her choice of words, she continued. "Tonight had to be one of them, of course."

"What sorts of nightmares?" the Count inquired. Adela curled the blanket around her tighter, daring to seek out a flicker of familiarity or the raising of a brow when she studied his face. But he remained placid, curious, and waiting, aware he was speaking out of their frame of formality due to the present circumstances. Though he did raise a brow at how she leaned on the edge of the settee with baited breath, as if she had all the wind knocked from her lungs. "If I have your permission to ask, of course?"

"You have it, monsieur." Adela would lie, for certain. Her dreams were not nightmares; they tipped on the side of fantasy instead, and she couldn't possibly admit that her nightmares are ungodly trysts with him she's had long before they'd met. "But I'm afraid my nightmares are even a mystery to me. They puzzle me, and I am sure you know by now that when I am puzzled, I will go to any end to find my answers."

The Count flourished one of his hands in a matter-of-fact manner and smirked at her off-put demeanor as she edged forward to emphasize her point. "Indeed," he acquiesced. "Thus you spend your nights awake in contemplation of these dreams. You give yourself very little time to sleep, if at all."

Adela shook her head in agreement, relieved that he had complied with her crafty lie. "If my insomnia deludes me, I go here." She waved a hand for emphasis. "I can be here for hours without knowing that time passes by." Adela returned his smile, then. It would be her first act of open kindness for him, but she wasn't letting off the steady wall she'd taken pains to build with regard to her heart and mind.

"It appears we have a scholar on our hands," the Count discerned.

"Yes, yes," she agreed. "But women are not meant to write compositions, odes, or observations. My father's been breaking the rules for his children—"

"From the moment you parted your lips and spoke a single word to me, I knew your father had schooled both his sons _and _his daughters well. There is no need to validate your intelligence, for it is clearly there." He surveyed her changing demeanor as she nodded, wondering if this was a cultural custom of men in Wallachia to regard the wit of a woman, or if it was a unique trait of his own. Was it possible to meet a man who made simple pleasantries with a lady without moving toward her skirts? Vladislaus Dracul had not once shifted his eyes from her face during their talk, he had offered her a blanket to keep her modestly covered, and complimented her having been educated. Mallorie's tale, it seemed, grew both falser and more suspicious by the hour. He resumed the flipping of pages in the current book he occupied after receiving no further reply from her.

Her gaze flitted to the tomes resting about on the table, wavering when it fell on his intent stare at the contents of the current book he was holding. "May I ask what you are reading? Perhaps I could be of help?" she insisted, stretching out a hand toward one of the closed books stacked in front of her. His resolve at the subjects of the volume broke at Adela's curiosity.

"I have a certain fascination with history, mademoiselle. The way our world changes around us, and how we are forced to change with it. Most people do not have the energy to converse about the topic, so I spare the grief and occupy them with less tiring matters."

"Like gossip?" Adela pressed her hands back into the folds of the blanket to restore their warmth. The crackle of the fire's embers lulled her into a strange calm when she set her eyes upon him again.

He inclined his head to acknowledge her inquiry, not smiling, but lifting the corner of his mouth ever slightly.

"Well, _Adela_, gossip is one of the many alternatives I turn to. It is what I tried to entertain you with tonight, and I see that it backfired. You like to be entertained, no doubt," the Count continued, "but not in the exact way other ladies expect to be. You like to be challenged intellectually. You like to match men with your wit yet deceive them with flirtatious wiles when you do not wish to be seduced in return." He was delicate when he closed the book, wishing not to disturb the vivacity of their humors they had created at three in the morning. Adela met and held his eye, a motion that struck a memorable intensity she had felt before. "You play a dangerous game, Adela."

"I never play games, Count, unless I intend to win," she smirked in retaliation. _Yes, this should be interesting enough_, Adela thought triumphantly. _He's ever so much the man I thought he was_.

Her passing comment caught him off guard, much to Adela's satisfaction, but the conversation had not reached its conclusion.

"Am _I _a game, mademoiselle?" She would have presumed the question to be a joke had she not met the wicked gleam in his eyes when she looked up at him. Adela could feel the heat rising to her cheeks again, but she knew she wouldn't back down from this wordplay tonight.

The polished smile she managed to flash at him had rendered the effect she wanted. _Dazzle him_, _Adela.  
_  
"Perhaps," she whispered. "But I never thought of it as a serious matter. I'm neither a prize, nor a plaything. I'm no bauble to be dangled in front of other aristocrats, and you, monsieur." Adela pulled her mouth taut, biting down on the fullness of her bottom lip and looking away as if in deep thought. "You are famous for your _playthings_, which is why I am telling you quite bluntly that I have no interest in being a temporary doll for a courtier." She leaned back against the headrest of the settee and folded her hands in her lap again, turning her face away from the mystified look of the Count to stare into the dying embers of the hearth. A long moment passed where none of them spoke any further words, but Adela could feel the fervor of his scrutiny from where she sat.

"I do not think there was a time when I saw you that I intended for you to be a temporary beauty of mine. You have a certain look about you, Adela. Did you know that?" he chuckled. "Even now, I can see it. There's this strength in your eyes—part of it is that guarded gaze of yours. You're protecting yourself from the world, which is something women of your age never care to do. But the other part of it is the evident intelligence that stare has. It isn't whimsical and flighty like the women at dinner. It has depth, even reason."

His words were trying to soften her heart, to charm their way in to the point where Adela would give in. She _wanted_ to give in. The Count's declaration, if she were another lady such as Blanche, would have been enough to force her knees apart at his own volition. But she wasn't Blanche. Yet her heart battled over the idea of him being both honest _and _charming. What should she say? With a little bit of a delay, Adela inclined her head to observe him. His powerful jaw was closed tightly, lips thinned into one line, and eyes shining with sincerity. She would acquiesce with his overindulging praise, for now. Words were hard to come by after that statement. She swallowed down the dryness in her throat.

"I am glad to hear you think highly of me, but keep in mind I am not so easily swayed." Adela couldn't find a way to steer the conversation elsewhere without feeling awkward, until her stare fell on the books resting on the table yet again. She linked her fingers together out of nervous habit, directing them to the stacks of volumes. "Since you promised another time to discuss the subjects of philosophy and history, and since it is both inappropriately late and we cannot retire to sleep, might we discuss these matters now?"

Though the Count appeared disappointed at Adela's lack of pleasure from his flattery, relief crossed his face and he nodded at her request. And so they talked of both mediocre and complex ideals. They argued on the significance of history and its crucial relationship with literature, how philosophers would nonsensically syllogize their lives into ruin; they talked of wars, of battles that could be resolved through intellectual disputations, and of subjects that entailed as much nonsense as coffeehouses and stagecoaches and men in dire need of wigs more so than women. It wasn't that he bored her, no, not a minute passed by that this strange man ceased in holding her attentions rightly so and she with his; it was his ability to speak with her so candidly as if they had been academic companions reunited at a journey's notice that comforted Adela enough to fall into slumber after an instant of silence.

Her exhaustion was foreseeable when the clock tolled five in the library. Time had in fact slipped by in a blur of good-natured banter, and at such an early hour where one should be resting, it came as no surprise that body would overtake mind. Vladislaus rose to his feet the moment Adela's breathing changed and her eyes closed shut, taking silent steps toward where she lay curled against the arm of her beloved settee. A swift bend of the knees and curve of the hands and Adela had been swept into his hold. Her right arm swung to and fro while the Count made his journey to her bedchamber door, stairs not hindering her sleep in the slightest. The breathing of Adela's friend Mallorie and sister Jacqueline matched the labored breaths of her own, and he made sure to set her resting figure on the bed without disturbance. She clung as a reflex to the sheets at her hips, but did not stir. Without a word or ignorant movement, Vladislaus crossed the threshold of the bedchamber doorway, leaving Adela to a first night free of dreams.

Adela woke to light, repeating waves of laughter nearest to her left ear. Still quite exhausted and weary from the previous night's events, she swatted her hand at the disturbance and rolled over in her sheets, muttering incoherently. The giggling continued for another five minutes, going into an alternating harmony of two girls who refused to leave her alone.

"Someone was out of her bed last night," Jacqueline sang. Adela's eyes opened to the sight of her flighty sister dancing around the vicinity of her bed; Mallorie, always the calm one even during times of excitement and curiosity, leaned against the bedpost in the corner closest to Adela, observing the invisible dirt in her nail beds while waiting for Jacqueline to abandon her onset of questions.

"I was not," Adela protested, her sister's calculating stare telling a tale of disbelief that made Adela question her own whereabouts nearly six hours ago. Had she left her bed at all? Did she truly come across the Count this morning when lack of sleep deluded her out of a restful night's slumber?

Mallorie caught the momentary confusion that rendered every emotion on her face vulnerable, and she cocked her head to the side for just a second to catch Adela's attention. She would have to explain herself before either of them meandered downstairs for their morning meal.

"Mhm," muttered Jacqueline. "Well I will leave you two to your own responsibilities before we greet our guests for a light meal. The questions for you, older sister, will come later." Jackie feigned a sloppy curtsy, winked, and closed the door behind her. Her humming resonated down the hallway for a solid minute before Mallorie and Adela stopped suspecting Jackie would eavesdrop on any details.

"Well, since Cherine is obviously not going to dress me today, I suppose I will have to make do with myself," Adela sniffed. After searching her wardrobe, she selected her most simple pale green dress and beckoned Mallorie over to help her tighten the strings of her stay.

Once every fastening had molded and curved Adela's waist into a slender line, Adela insisted on helping Mallorie into a problematic dress she brought with her for the overnight trip. They laughed over their struggles applying rouge and kohl, eventually giving up on the idea of doing something with their wild curls other than running five smooth brushstrokes through them. Mallorie's temperament had been off since Jacqueline's suspicious questions of Adela, and as they had done the finishing touches on each other's makeup, Adela couldn't resist the urge to clear the air of this problem as soon as possible.

"So did you really—"

"Yes, I left the room," Adela paused. "At least I think I did. I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to just _lay _there, so I went to the library, like I usually do." Mallorie nodded her head along with Adela's explanation, shoulders relaxing when she realized her valid excuse was not nearly as bad as Jacqueline had anticipated.

"Jackie was beginning to think you had run off with one of the courtiers from the celebration last night. But I told her," Mallorie wagged her gloved finger. "I told her that you aren't stupid enough to let a man have his way with you. You might tease them, but I know my friend well," she smiled.

_Not well enough_. Adela smiled back at her friend, neglecting to disclose the last piece of her explanation to Mallorie. She feared that if she had, Mallorie might have died of shock and a weak heart before Adela could get her to walk down the hall. _And we wouldn't want that, now would we? _she thought tenderly as the pair of friends set off down the two flights of stairs that would take them directly to the main hall. They chatted without disruption and were thankful that a good number of guests who chose to stay the night followed behind them. Adela sent a sweeping look over the guests already seated at the banquet table, searching for that one face that would give her affirmation of the previous evening's discussion. Her mother and father, Evelien and Grégoire, remained seated and preoccupied with guests in their vicinity; both Aldric and Brigitte were nowhere in sight.

"I always do like a good meal in the morning," Mallorie commented as they seated themselves once again at Grégoire's end of the table. "Will they be serving coffee today?"

The Count had walked into the main hall midway through Mallorie's small talk, but he wasn't looking in her direction. He had been keeping his focus on Adela's father, who exchanged a furtive look of acknowledgement with him as the Count seated himself at Grégoire's left hand, three seats away and across from Adela herself.

She managed to snap herself out of her brief stupor before Mallorie would take offense to her lack of answering. "Yes, I think so," Adela responded. She waited for what seemed like hours until the Count's eyes shifted in her direction, and when they did, he left only a wink of a smirk for her to see. Adela glanced down at her hands out of fear Mallorie would see them exchanging stares. _So it had happened_.

Before any further talk around the table could commence, several house servants brought out an assortment of meats, pastries, and cheeses for the guests to feast on. To Mallorie's dismay, coffee would not be served until noontime for the guests who have elected to stay a second night in lieu of Aldric's celebration.

"We shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning," she mumbled under the cover of her hand. "We would have had coffee delivered to us immediately if we didn't come down."

"Well your parents are staying another night, aren't they?" Adela questioned lightly, concentration on her food wavering when she noticed the Count could not peel his eyes from her face. She'd intended to spur disinterest in him that prior evening, for if the gossip Mallorie had been hearing was true, he would have dropped his attention from Adela entirely. Even though he had vocalized his observations and intent of not simply _wooing _her onto her back, she had believed the façade was a continuation of his inherent charm.

"Yes, they are," Mallorie replied, voice just as equally as distant as Adela's. It was just a few seconds into the meal when a rush of servants, two or three, hastened to Evelien's side and imparted a string of news in her ear. She dabbed her dining linen to the corners and center of her mouth twice, folded it next to her plate, and excused herself from the feast to hurry up the staircase. Some guests who couldn't resist a juicy rumor paid attention to the spectacle and babbled with excitement to their neighbors. However, Adela and Mallorie couldn't help but overhear a distant conversation four seats down the table between a group of young women their age.

"You didn't hear it from me," a dainty redhead dressed in hand-me-down finery whispered. "But last night I heard moaning coming from Blanche's room. _Moaning_," she stated, absolutely flabbergasted. "I haven't seen her come out of her chambers since then, but I think, ladies, another one of our daisies has lost her petals come sunrise." The conversation was loud enough for Adela to hear as clear as day, and in an instant Mallorie shot her a warning look that wandered to where the Count was seated. She mouthed an 'I told you,' face opening into a fearful gape so full of anxiety that it was making Adela uncomfortable.

_He couldn't have, could he?_ she wondered. _I was talking to him in the library last night—he was with me_. Her brows furrowed at how fuzzy her memories were of the previous evening, and she began to count on her fingers an ordered list of what she could remember. And then it dawned on Adela that she couldn't recall walking back to her own chambers. Had she fallen asleep? Did he wake her up and help her to her bedroom? Her mouth was slowly dropping at the onslaught of knowledge she was receiving. He obviously hadn't taken advantage of her vulnerable position, seeing as she remained tightly laced into her stay when she woke, and her body did not protest with the telltale signs of what her mother had described to her as the virgin ache. Adela was perfectly intact, and they had been talking for well over three hours. When did he have the time to deflower a girl not any older than Adela herself? She'd reached the conclusion that Blanche had been taken advantage of by another courtier, for the facts just didn't add up right in Adela's mind.

Her mother returned in a matter of fifteen minutes, not looking a hair out of place as she resumed her meal at the head of the table. None of the women inquired about the situation to maintain proper etiquette, and none of the men paid mind to the subject at all. Something was off, for certain. Adela spared another glimpse at the Count as she popped a cube of cheese in her mouth, eyes narrowing when she found him in deep conversation with Grégoire. She took note of her father's gradual smile, both eager yet terse at the same time as they inclined their heads in a mutual nod of agreement. _What _was going on? Mallorie's apprehensive disposition hadn't lessened in the slightest when she followed the path Adela's eyes had made.

When Grégoire motioned Adela over with the sleight of his hand after the meal had ended, Mallorie suddenly pressed her fist to her mouth to keep herself from choking on her last bit of food. Adela flashed Mallorie a look of perplexity when her father looped his arm through hers, patted her hand affectionately, and led her into the adjoining foyer.

"I believe you enchanted a good number of men last night, my dear," were his first words. "Enough that I had received several requests of their intentions to court you." He withdrew his favorite smoking pipe from the pocket of his coat, packing a good helping of tobacco in it before he continued. "Of course I had to select one for my little bonbon. About four of them had produced adequate papers and referral letters for me to consider, and I wanted to make sure my daughter has only the best of the gentlemen as her future husband."

Her hands were clasped tightly; she couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't speak.

"So what you're saying, Papa," Adela clarified, swallowing the lump forming in her throat, "is that I am to be betrothed?"

"Well, yes, in a sense you are correct," Grégoire mumbled, his lit pipe fitting snugly between his teeth. "But I didn't make my decision based on letters of referral alone. Your mother and I were watching you interact with your suitors last night. I selected the gentleman who brought out the finest humor in you." He finally took in his daughter's fearful temperament and rushed to her side, letting her take a seat in a nearby armchair before he informed her of his choice. "How now, _ma chérie_, don't fret. Courting can take years. If you make it known to me that this is a dangerous match, I will call off the pairing entirely. But please take this matter lightly. Think of your future, bonbon, and what will make you happy."

A firm knock at the door nearly made Adela jump out of her skin. She felt like she was being handed away in a rush, and wondered if her mother had anything to do with this impulsive turn of events.

When Count Dracul walked into the room and shook hands with Grégoire, Adela could breathe no longer.

"Perfect timing, Count," Grégoire cheered, clasping him on back heartily despite the obvious height difference between the two men. "I have allowed Monsieur Dracul to have the honor of courting you, _chérie_."

The Count dropped into another one of his trademark bows, sweeping low to take Adela's small hand in his, pressing his colds lips to her heated skin once again. His blue eyes lingered on her skin a moment until they lifted questionably to her shaken expression.

_No_.


	6. Uninvited Liaisons

**Hello, readers! Here is the awaited update I thoroughly loved writing. I hope you all enjoy it! A little note I want to insert in here: the play's name in English is "The School for Wives," in case anyone was curious.**

_"__And so what if, at the end of this story, with a ring on my finger and a castle to boot, you find out that my prince is a prince of nothing but darkness? I knew what I was doing. I was prepared for a long dance with death." -_Jeannine Hall Gailey

* * *

When Adela confided every detail of her dreaded courtship to the Count into Mallorie's listening ear not two hours since their morning meal, she thought her friend would be consumed with sickness in an instant.

"How can your father accept this?!" she demanded. "It's ludicrous! No," Mallorie paused dramatically. "It's _immoral_ to pair my best friend with a man who makes it a sport to bed women! How is this gentleman qualified to court _anyone_?"

"Define 'moral' and 'qualified,' please," Adela muttered miserably. "I know Papa wouldn't pick someone he wouldn't think a good match for me. He had letters of referral and his rank is exemplary, I suppose."

"Don't tell me you're considering this! I know I said that we need to keep any attentions in mind, but I think your father made a poor decision."

"He said that I can call it off so long as I give adequate time for a proper relationship to develop." She fussed with her curls in the mirror to keep her shaking hands distracted, winding and pulling until she gave up taming them and collapsed in her vanity chair. "I have no choice, Mallorie. I started off the courtship on the wrong footing by running out of the room after he proclaimed his intentions in front of Papa."

Mallorie sank lower in the chair across from Adela, making one of the most unladylike faces she had ever seen from her friend when it came to conflicts. They remained in that state of gloom until silence settled over the two of them.

"What do you suggest I do?" Adela finally murmured against the skin of her arm, where her head lightly rested.

"I suggest you play his game," a melodic, excited voice stated in the doorway of Adela's bed chambers. Both young women turned to take in the sight of Jacqueline closing the door shut behind her, whirling around to gleam mischievously at the pair of nonplussed girls. "What? Don't you see, sister dear? If you made it past a one-day encounter with him without being deflowered, you've appeared to impress him. By not handing over what's most precious to you, this strange gentleman views you as an even greater game than taking a tumble in the sheets."

"Jackie!" Mallorie reprimanded.

"Oh Mallorie, don't be a prude," Jacqueline admonished. "Adela doesn't shy away from inappropriate flirting. When this man continues to meet resistance, and when he wants to take the flirting further, he'll grow frustrated enough that Adela can express her wishes to eradicate the courtship. That is, unless my sister falls in love with him during their time of courtship," she winked.

"I would not!" Adela's mouth dropped. Jacqueline's constant string of giggles stifled the sound of light rapping at the door, to which Mallorie reacted as a startled, yelping dog when one of the servants poked their head in and cleared their throat.

"Mademoiselle Adela, Monsieur Dracul wishes to speak with you in the east gardens," the maid specified, opening the door wider and motioning with a hand toward the devil himself standing behind her.

"If you will have me," he added smugly, knowing well that Adela had to clear up the spectacle she made earlier in front of her father.

"Of course," she replied in the most unaffected voice she could manage. Adela refused to look at Mallorie and Jacqueline out of fear for their reactions as she rose from her chair. She didn't look back when the maid shut the door behind her either, holding back the desire to avert her eyes toward the Count when she refused to indulge him by resting her hand on his arm. They walked at a brisk, silent pace, making it to her mother's pride and joy of autumn flowers blooming in the underbrush of withered summer. Adela didn't want to say anything at all. However, something about the Count's cool exterior made her curious as he motioned for her to stop walking ahead. Having reached the far side of the estate in the east gardens, the pair was almost completely alone with the exception of her father's servicemen guarding various entrances.

"I wanted to talk to you when you weren't in the presence of superiors, Adela."

"Mademoiselle," she corrected quietly.

"I thought we had passed these formalities by now." His voice remained steady, calm even, but his eyes held passion in them when she dared to stare up at him. They were a fierce blue, strangely uncommon considering his country of origin, but captivating nevertheless.

"Must you not forget that there are formalities even during courtship, monsieur?" Adela clipped, folding her hands together and letting them rest where her bodice met her skirts. "I'll have you know that I fully intend to remain in those boundaries throughout the given length of time you court me."

"But you must know, _mademoiselle_, that in Wallachia the men and women are permitted to freely express their affections for each other in the public eye, to an extent." She didn't catch his eye when the lilt of his mouth twisted into a conquering smirk.

"Are we in Wallachia, monsieur?" Adela countered.

"I'm afraid not." The smirk grew wider.

"Where are we, then?"

"We are in France, Lady Reneau." He looked about the garden for a quick second, and despite Adela having full reign of the argument, his observation of their surroundings sent her into a brief state of anxiety.

"Correct, Count Dracul. When we are in the home country of a suitor's lady, courtship rituals of that country are in effect." Her brows rose with conquest, and she almost expected the Count to bow his head in defeat. _Almost. _

"Yes, that part is evident to me," he agreed, his triumphant smile failing to fall as Adela took a step of precaution back, once she realized how uncomfortably close in proximity they were. Her action only invited him to move another step in her direction. "However, while certain distance is obligatory for our courtship, we are required to make public appearances as a formal couple." He watched her let the information sink in, the color draining from her paling face, and frowned. "I wanted to speak with you for the purpose of explaining why I asked to court you."

The quickness in her breathing started to pick up when he took her hand in earnest. She made a brief tug against his fingers, but relented when he stooped low to kiss her open palm. The action was intimate enough to make her flush a delicate red.

"I don't understand—"

"You don't have to," he began. "Let time decide what your heart desires. If ever there is a day where you decide this match will lead to your greatest unhappiness, I will consent to sever the courtship." The Count refrained from looking away when he imparted the last statement, always sincere. He rose to his full height and cast a glance of interest her way. "Your wit knows no bounds, neither does your beauty. I am lucky to have witnessed a display of your intelligence the prior evening, and I can only hope that perhaps in the future you will reciprocate some semblance of a sentiment for me."

"That is a possibility," Adela intoned quietly. "I trust you will respect my distance for the time being?"

"Indeed. In fact, I will be in a separate box for this evening's performance at the theatre. Your elder brother has decided to save the best of his celebrations last." He spared another peek at the guards standing next to the gates of the garden. "Will you be in attendance?"

Adela had nearly forgotten about the play the houseguests were attending that evening. She knew it was customary for celebratory events to last over the course of a couple days, but for some unknown reason she assumed tonight's event would be held in some neglected wing of their estate. Her cautious stature shifted into an unguarded sense of candidness—she lifted her chin a little higher than normal and smiled.

"Yes, I will be in attendance. It's a masque play, I'm told." There was a particular beige mask trimmed in gold lace Adela intended to wear with her gown, but the Count won't know anything of her outfit for the masque. If she had it her way, he would never find her in the mass of guests meandering about the maze of the theatre.

"May I accompany you to the viewing, perhaps?" His tone wasn't hopeful, in fact it sounded like he was expecting failure, but Adela didn't hesitate in her response.

"No, you may not," she clipped, eyes wide and defiant even when she internally quaked at her boldness. The Count anticipated that reply, indeed, for that ghost of a smile was on his lips before he inclined his head in respect. "Though we are in a courtship, it does not mean we must flaunt imaginary affection for one another to the public. I am already viewed as a woman of coquetry by nature, and while I can prove that my chastity is true, rumors will be abound concerning you and I." Adela stepped an appropriate distance away from the Count, hands still folded at her waist, face unyielding. "I simply won't have it."

"Very well," he acquiesced, waving his hand in a manner that implied he would revere her wishes. "I will take my leave of you, then." There was nothing more to say, Adela was certain. He did not kiss her hand this time, sensing her distress from the short space between them. Bowing at the waist for good measure and ambling forward when he was sure that no servants were eavesdropping, the Count spoke softly in her ear, "Whoever said my affection for you was imaginary has no knowledge of what it looks like when a gentleman desires a woman."

His departing words stole Adela's capacity to speak. She waited until she could faintly see the ends of his coattails before she walked back to her room alone.

The servants hadn't heard a whisper of their conversation, judging by their looks of vacancy when Adela searched their faces in passing. Her family's manor was filled to the brim with servants and guests enjoying their time before preparation required them to dress for the play. Adela's parents were busy entertaining the elder guests when she managed to sneak past them and saunter up to her chambers. The hallways had become quite dim due to the overcast day outside, enough that she couldn't fully make out the faces of the portraits that lined the walls. She'd nearly made it to her bedroom when she heard hushed voices around the corner, speaking rapidly and in worried tones which piqued Adela's curiosity.

"Her fever hasn't lessened since we found her this morning." Aldric's deep tenor rang familiarity in Adela's ears. She crept closer, pressing a hand against the wall for support as she tilted her head slightly past where the two hallways met. He was speaking harshly to a physician and handmaid outside Blanche's guest chambers. Adela noticed his hands were twisting together with unease, one of the little annoyances her elder brother has had since boyhood. "She looked perfectly healthy the prior evening."

"Yes, yes," assured the physician. "However, her physical exam has provided me with enough evidence to inform you that she was visited by a gentleman last night. It doesn't account for the fever." He shook his head. "But it can explain her exhaustion."

"Did the man force himself upon her?" questioned Aldric. Her brother was no saint; everyone knew that, but the outrage on his face at the idea of a man bedding a woman without her consent was honest and true when Adela regarded his anger.

"No, the entry was not forced, though she had been a virgin prior to the occurrence." The physician regarded the notes he had etched on a slip of parchment before he met Aldric's gaze of scrutiny again. "I'm afraid I cannot explain her strange behavior. When she is returned to her home tomorrow morning, I will continue to measure her progress. Until that time, the best we can do is to administer proper herbs and vitamins to maintain her health."

Adela pushed her back against the wall, out of sight from her brother and Blanche's physician, and let the conversation she had just heard sink in. Blanche had been romanced by a man last night, and now she's currently incapacitated due to a combination of fever and exhaustion. She's been weakening since this morning. Could it have been the Count Adela's been hearing stories about for as long as she can remember? None of it was registering properly in her mind, none of it made sense. If her calculations were correct, he was in the library with her between the hours of two and five. Justifiably, he would have visited Blanche in the two hour time frame from which the evening celebration ended.

Her stomach dropped at that thought.

_What if he had…?_ Adela shook her head. _No. I'll ask him myself if I have to_.

But the unease settling in the pit of her stomach never lessened as she reached the door of her room. Jacqueline appeared to have left long ago to resume lessons with her governess; however Mallorie was pacing up a storm in the short distance from the hearth to Adela's bed. She was nibbling at her nails in a nervous kind of violence, pausing only when Adela made her presence evident with the clicking of her slippers. Mallorie went to her at once and took her friend's hands into her own.

"Have you heard the news?" she said in a low voice.

"About Blanche?" queried Adela. "Yes. I overhead it during my walk back."

Mallorie shot her an expectant look. "And?" she persisted. "What do you think of it?"

"I think…" Adela's personal handmaid, Iva, entered the room just then. For a moment she closed her mouth and left her words to herself as Iva catered to her messy hair. "I think I need proof before we jump to conclusions that one man out of the hundred staying as guests here had visited Blanche." Adela interrupted Mallorie before she could open her mouth to argue. "It is my responsibility to deal with this. He is courting me, and I would like it very much if you would not let word spread of rumors that haven't been verified. It will hurt my reputation, Mallorie." Her words echoed twofold in her own mind, wondering why on earth the topic of statuses had meant so much to her now. The sting in her words was enough to make her friend whisper a sincere apology and resign to the corner of her room; Adela wished she had found a better way to explain her situation.

Iva wound her hair into soft ringlets, brushing the curls out until they fell in waves on Adela's bare shoulders. She was helped into a bodice three shades darker than her skin; green beading outlined the fullness of her bust and fell like drops of dew on the chiffon and silk of her skirt. Iva laced her in tightly, leaving the lower half of her bodice slightly open for the full effect of her skirt fluffing out from her waist. Mallorie had been fitted into a dress of gray satin and had her cheeks rouged tremendously to offset her sudden pallor. All was forgiven between the pair of friends by the time their evening preparations were finalized, and Adela understood why Mallorie had suspicions.

Count Dracul was in every way a foreigner to their lands, regardless of his esteemed social status and famed name descended from Romanian royalty. Adela had visited his country on a number of occasions with Aldric and her father, was flaunted at court, and had heard rumors of a similar kind compared to Mallorie's. Not once had she seen the man himself, with the exception of her eavesdropping those many years ago. He seemed to be a solitary individual, indulging in the occasional woman during his frequent travels. But lately the rumors have run rampant with his voracious appetite for everything remotely foreign and exotic, and Adela couldn't blame Mallorie for fearing the worst. The Count was more open in her dreams—they were a bad match in reality—and she was starting to fear she had lost her mind in every waking moment she glanced at him, knowing she had conjured up the image of this man since her childhood. Dreams had power, but they were also deceiving. So was gossip.

She was sure word of her courtship had reached as far as Versailles by now. The worst of these, if Adela were confronted by them at the masque, would be that she was secretly with child, and that her station was high enough to be considered for marriage by the man responsible for the mishap. Another possibility could be that her father had desperately paid the Count off in exchange for his daughter's hand, brought on by the dangerous situation of the eldest daughter nearing 20 without any prospects. The French Court knew no bounds when it came to its cruelty, and too often silence grew to be worse for a reputation over interminable chatter. Silence would be what Adela received come sundown at the theatre.

The young women were ushered out the door and down the hall along with the other guests, skirts spinning in full and masks being tied in fine bows last minute as the gentlemen followed behind. Despite the obvious notion that every person who intended to make an appearance at the play was required to conceal their identity—a French custom prolonged by the aristocracy for as long as Adela can remember—she looked around in hesitation when the majority of guests had crowded into carriages outside. Her eyes raked over the faces of motley-hued façades, searching for the stoic stare Adela could pick out from a gathering of a thousand people.

The Count wasn't in sight.

Adela bunched her skirt in her hands as the coachmen helped her and Mallorie into a carriage with two other ladies of their caliber. No one appeared up for conversation during the painstaking ride into the heart of Paris, but she didn't let it take away from her growing apprehension on what would unfold for this evening's events. There was a reason Adela denied Count Dracul's request to accompany her. For the past day or two, he had been mere steps ahead of her with every shocking turn, as if this had been preordained years prior. The last thing she wanted to endure tonight were more false scandals fueling the aristocracy's boredom and the untimely tarnishing of her image.

She was and has always been a flirt, but never a concubine.

Adela wasn't going to give that impression tonight, either.

She would remain stoic herself, passive to the accusatory expressions and whispers hidden behind fluttering fans. Mallorie would see to it that Adela kept a clear head; even now she clutched at her friend's palm resting in her lap, and Adela tightened her grip back as if she could draw some of Mallorie's collected energy into herself. Paris' grandeur greeted them when the sun cast the sky into a cascade of purples and reds, and the party of four watched the colors scatter into a blanket of night by the time the coachmen had pulled up to the entrance of the theatre.

Adela hadn't realized how tense she was until she was being helped down from the steps leading out of the coach. One of the footmen had to catch her when she lost her balance, but she shooed him away the moment she regained composure in front of her family's multitude of guests. Mallorie took her place beside Adela, silver mask retied into a snug knot as they linked arms and climbed the base of the stairs. She watched the ladies and lords flock around her, observed the eyes of every man she could pick out, but all of them were dull and never the startling azure burned into her memory. He had to have been biding his time in this newfound distance she created, or respecting her wishes about the flight of rumors concerning their courtship.

With her mask covering half of her face, Adela still received more than enough questionable glances when they breached the entryway doors of the theatre. She could hear strings of locutions from parties nearest to her, though their words fell silent when she turned her gaze on them. Mallorie held her tongue out of fear for her friend's sharp reproach and decided to wring her hands until they were escorted into a secluded box. Their slippers padded silently on the velvet of the theatre floor, skirts of satin and silk brushing against other ladies in a hurry to find their seats. Several gentleman passed them on their way, some left unattended by a match while others whispered soft vulgarities enough to make their lovers blush. But one in particular stood out to Adela among the rest, the tallest of them all, and she knew in that moment it was him.

His mask could have been the twin to Mallorie's with its silver accents overlaid in black satin. The Count's ensemble of the evening marked a stark distinction from the nimble shades of her gown—form-fitting black and blue brocade offset the warm tones in her skirt easily. It was his ubiquitous smirk that gave him away, though, and the piercing ice of his eyes which seemed to mock her at every turn. She made no motion of acknowledging him as he passed by, and she nudged Mallorie's arm to keep her under check until he was out sight.

"He knows it's me," Adela whispered, sighing in defeat when they closed the curtain to the box behind them and took their seats at the edge of the balcony. The two ladies who had accompanied Adela and Mallorie in the coach paid no mind to the pair's hesitant prattling, for tonight's performance was written by the famous French playwright, Molière, and that in and of itself was enough to rouse any of the aristocracy to a heightened excitement.

Molière's _L'École des Femmes_, after undergoing heavy scrutiny from the public eye for his flamboyant and sometimes outrageous form of comedy, rewrote his composition into _La Critique de L'École des Femmes_ and released it to the French aristocracy this past June. Adela knew Aldric to be a fan of the comedy when her and her brother traveled with Grégoire into Eastern European territory, and the guests have been abuzz since early afternoon with the new version of the play. Adela preferred the tragedies of Racine over Molière's strange taste for impropriety, thus the minutes that preceded the introduction of the play where it is allowed to momentarily remove one's mask in the company of friends, passed by slow.

"At least he didn't make efforts to converse," Mallorie commented, poking her naked face over to the balcony and raking her eyes over the guests seated below. She jutted a finger straight down, pointing two rows to the left. "I see your parents and mine with Aldric. Where is Brigitte?"

The seat next to Aldric was empty, and her brother's exaggerated stance of laughter tipped Adela off that something was wrong. To avoid biting at her nails, she wound a few stray curls around her pointer finger, tilting her head to look in random directions until the curtains rose on stage.

He was sitting in a box not far from her.

She tried to not make her immediate notice of him obvious to her friend, so she raised her mask to her face and fastened it a second time, hoping the material was enough to hide her growing blush from any observers.

A hush settled over the audience when the curtains parted—a petite young woman, not any older than sixteen she presumed, pranced onto stage with a man twice her age and height. But Adela didn't hear them; she couldn't hear anything going on around her. Her breathing went from easy to strained when she caught the Count stealing furtive looks from her across the theatre.

_A bad match, indeed,_ she noted in her thoughts.

Adela detected a nod in the dim lighting, the little action he made to show him respecting her boundaries. The knot in her throat and palpitations thumping uneven rhythms in her heart wouldn't go away, and she jumped when a shriek resounded from the actors on stage. The entire theatre burst into laughter. Looking to her right, she saw Mallorie's amusement shine through after two days of fretful behavior and immediately felt sorry for worrying her friend. Before the final minutes until intermission brought light to the playhouse, Adela shuffled out of her seat and made to leave the box.

"Where are you going?" Mallorie uttered in a low voice, pressing a hand into Adela's elbow to stop her from moving further.

"I need air. Don't worry about me," she smiled with repose. "I'll be back." Her minor words proved true enough to allow Mallorie to let her go. Adela moved the curtain aside and, taking a deep breath, set off at a brisk pace down the narrow hall. She could hear the distant laughter of the crowd resound off the paneled walls, and Adela walked faster until she found herself unable to breath evenly anymore. Her feet carried her around a sharp corner, quick enough that she didn't realize she was colliding with another person until it was too late.

The weight of the impact almost knocked Adela off her feet, however a pair of arms wound about the small of her back before her legs fell out from under her. In the midst of her struggle, she was gently pulled into the empty box behind her to not draw attention to the accidental spectacle she had created. When Adela collected her wits about her and looked around, she found herself staring into familiar blue eyes she both dreaded and admired.

So he _had_ followed her when she made haste and left her box. She nearly scoffed when the slow spread of a smile lingered on his lips. Adela shoved herself as far away from him as she could manage. Hadn't she had enough of his intrusions today? Her efforts to maintain an appropriate level of breathing continued to fail her. The contrasting black and silver of his mask glinted in the candlelight of the archway, and Adela realized they were half hidden by the heavy velvet curtains draped to give privacy in the boxes.

"Monsieur Dracul! Have you lost your etiquette entirely? I asked not to be disturbed this evening after hearing all of this bickering gossip about our courtship." Her head inclined in the direction of the curtain in case they were heard before she turned her sharp, glaring eyes to him again. "Have you any idea what your reputation is doing to belittle mine?" she whispered harshly. "I have done enough damage by myself, but now there are _rumors_ that my apparent promiscuity has reached a new height."

"My apologies, Lady Adela." His smile lessened for her sake as he pressed his hand to his chest in a wounded manner. "I had hoped my reputation and yours would be put to rest following the news of our courtship."

"Put to rest?" Adela's breathing came out in short, panicked bursts. Her ringlets were falling into tangled waves, and she was more flushed than ever out of frustration for this ordeal. "Everything is _unraveling_! You don't understand the customs of the French court." She started to pace the length of the carpet in the empty box, taking care to not run her hand over her rouged cheeks as she removed her mask. "To the public, I am just another one of your _putains_. I have done nothing impure in the slightest, and I have even gone as far as denying my attraction to keep a chaste image."

Adela had to turn away when she comprehended the amount of information she admitted to this strange man, her betrothed. Of course she was attracted to him, but she didn't want to be. She couldn't explain why she's known his face for a good portion of her life, and she certainly couldn't ask him such a peculiar question. But the expression on his face when her words sunk in didn't show satisfaction or pride over her admittance.

His face darkened into surprise and pure stupefaction. Adela didn't notice that they were moving closer as the seconds ticked by, though her hands clenched at her sides with nervous anticipation.

"But you aren't a _putain_, mademoiselle. You've bewitched me." He brushed a few stray curls away from her cheek when he spoke, letting the cool flesh of his thumb graze over her face and linger. If Adela had been restless a minute ago, she thought she was falling into a panic now.

"You will keep your distance monsieur," she murmured. Adela didn't pull away.

The curtain made the rest of the box a dim shade of grey in the backdrop of the theatre, while the sounds of actors shouting their exaggerated jubilee drowned out the heavy pounding of her heart. Count Dracul didn't move any closer to her—the deep sea of his eyes swam with interest when he stared down at her mouth.

"I think distance has become enough of a frivolous thing, don't you think?" He dared to rest his other hand on the curve of her waist. Her body fell into the motion as if it was instinct. "I would very much like to kiss you right now, if you would allow me," he whispered.

Adela couldn't utter a word, they were so close. The Count had curled his arm fully around her, thumb slipping from her cheek to press into her rosy lips questionably. She has kissed a number of men in her short lifetime, but this would be different. This was real and true, something she had only shared with the Count in her dreams, and he was so very close to her, chilling her to the bone and sending thrills of palpable heat up her legs. She couldn't pull away, and she didn't want to. His mask was suddenly gone, and she wasn't sure if she had shaken her head in approval or made it clear she wanted it. He was leaning in, and soon his mouth was upon hers.

The world felt like it was shaking beneath her feet.

Adela's hands took hold of his face to bring him as close as possible to her lips, and she was kissing him back with as much intensity as he was imposing on her. She thought she had fallen asleep and that this was another one of her ridiculous fictions. But he had seized her mouth in such a manner so unalike her dream figure—she felt like she had been set aflame from the inside out. He didn't let his hands wander or dip under her skirts like Adela had suspected; they remained wrapped around her figure until the couple molded into a passion of heated kisses more or less uninvited than the rest that followed.

She had surrendered to this embrace, fallen into a trap she wasn't sure she would ever rise from again.

The curtain hadn't lifted in their moment of splendor, but the play was halfway finished, and their masks of security were lying discarded on the velvet floor.


End file.
